


through the rubble

by tosca1390



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-23
Updated: 2012-07-23
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:40:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tosca1390/pseuds/tosca1390
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The mansion has gathered dust. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	through the rubble

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers through the current manga chapter. For C.

*

The mansion has gathered dust. 

Rukia drags a fingertip through it as it lingers on the ornate end table, greeting her in the front hall. The air is stale, like a mausoleum. 

She turns for the kitchen. There is the relief she searches for.

*

 

For a long time, no one will say anything to her. 

The Captain-Commander tells her himself of Byakuya. Really, she already knew; but there are strengths she does not uncover, not even for her leaders. She takes the news like a soldier, as she has been trained and as she is; there are still battles to fight and win, and Byakuya would not want her to grieve. Not yet, anyway. 

No, for a very long time, there are no words of it. The Quincies are suppressed – brainwashed, they say, by Aizen, and these are the things that do not surprise her – and she waits no longer than she must to return to Ichigo’s world, Ichigo’s home. The barracks hold no comfort for her, and the mansion – 

“No,” she says to Ichigo, in the darkness of his bedroom. Summer is heavy with heat and thick humidity; her hair sticks to her throat, growing out. She lays on her side with her back to his gaze, stretched out in the small bed. 

Ichigo’s palm slides over her belly, fingers crawling over slick skin. “You’re his heir.”

“You have no idea what that means,” she says curtly. Her shoulders hunch, and she is tired. 

He sighs and she feels the stir of air against the nape of her neck. “I’m just – fuck, Rukia, I’m _worried_ – “

“Don’t,” she murmurs, turning. She pushes him back flat onto the bed, dragging a thigh over his hips. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.”

Staring up at her, he frowns. His eyes narrow in the summer darkness, with just the faint yellow of the streetlights to touch and light the way. “You have to go back eventually,” he says, hands on her hips. 

Instead of replying, she leans down and kisses him, a bite of a touch. Her nails dig into his chest and there, she feels the press of his hips against hers. He gasps her name and she kisses him quiet, so quiet – his sisters are a hallway away. He is nearly a king crowned, but he is still a man. The same distractions still work. 

What she doesn’t say: it is a distraction for herself, too. 

Later, he curls around her without words, even sticky and hot as the air and their bodies are. She remembers an afternoon in the woods, rain and blood and tears, and she shuts her eyes. Ichigo’s mouth ghosts her throat as his leg slides over her hip and she is encased, protected; her shoulders shake for a moment, and he says nothing. He breathes and slides his fingers into hers and she swallows down the sounds.

The nights are too quiet, even in his bed.

 

*

 

In the end, it is business that calls her back. A will, an installation; she is the head of the family now, and must take on a mantle she was unprepared to wear on her shoulders. Legalities dog her, and she sits through meeting after meeting. Soul Society is a press around her, the air too tight; she misses the wide skies of the world of the living, the freedom. 

There is a meeting with her captain, with the Captain-Commander; she reaffirms her commitment to Karakura Town, despite what she’s sure is their want to keep her here, with them. She is the only Kuchiki left, after all; she is valuable once more. It all leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, something she can’t quite shake. It isn’t mourning, it isn’t grief, it isn’t anger – it is ghosts, a haunting. There are shades following her steps, the weight of adopted responsibility heavy on her shoulders. 

Her first steps into the empty mansion are uneasy. It is her house now, she thinks. A place to marry, to live, to raise whatever children – she shakes her head, breathing in the stale dusty air. 

No, she thinks, moving deeper into the mansion, towards the empty kitchen. The servants have the day off. She is alone in this house, as she has always felt. 

 

*

 

Grief is personal and all too public. Every family, every person has their own way to it. 

There is Isshin, and his yearly picnic to Masaki’s grave, his adulation of an oversized photo; and then there is the quiet of his solitary cigarette, the loneliness of his bed. There is Yuzu, throwing herself into a domesticity she may not have craved if her mother was still alive; Karin, tough and gruff and sharp as elbows. 

There is Nanao, and her loss of her mentor Lisa; she carries it as a silent wound, uncovered to no one. Byakuya held Hisana’s death above himself, a constant motivator and a bleak reminder of the frailty of life and love. Ichigo – he is loud and angry just as he is quiet and unsure with his guilt and his loss, in all forms. 

She has never let herself truly feel it, she thinks. Hisana was just the briefest brush of a memory, tears and loss and soft fingers at her bruised cheek; Rukia tastes sand and ash when she thinks of it. Then that next loss, Kaien – she held it as a weight to carry, a standard to bear. Every loss of Ichigo is tempered by his obstinacy, the breaths he takes; now, here, with the loss of Byakuya, she feels them all. 

Rukia peels herself apart in the empty Kuchiki mansion. 

She wonders if it ever changes.

 

*

 

It is hours later, when she hears the footsteps in the front hall from her bedroom. 

She sits in the middle of her bed, cataloguing the few and far-between personal touches, the small collection of Chappys - a bottle of sake half-finished lingers in her palm. Her uniform is loose, her hair falls against her brow, her cheeks. She is tired, tired of much – she listens to the footsteps, unconcerned. There is only one person it could be. 

The door creaks open, and there he is – Ichigo, uniform and all, fills the open space of the doorway. He has never seen this room, she thinks between sips straight from the bottle. 

“Hi,” she says, cross-legged in the middle of the bed. 

Ichigo raises a brow. He looks so much older now, she thinks. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Sitting. In my house,” she says. 

He makes some sort of sound, moving into the room. “Expected you back hours ago.”

“There is business to attend to, Ichigo,” she says, holding the bottle out to him. 

Sitting at the end of the bed, he takes the bottle, and a swallow; he doesn’t flinch. She smiles; the tips of her fingers are soft, fuzzy, as she takes the bottle back. “Well done, your highness.”

“Don’t start,” he murmurs, eyes dark. “Rukia – “

“My brother would have insisted on us getting married here,” she says abruptly. The afternoon light fades through the wide open windows, reflecting darkly in his hair. 

His mouth curls at the edges. “Oh yeah?”

“Absolutely. A Kuchiki tradition,” she says softly. Her mouth rests on the lip of the bottle. “Flowers everywhere. We would write our names in the book, just as he and Hisana did – you’d have to cut your hair – “

“Oi, I like my hair – “

“Doesn’t matter,” she murmurs. “It’s tradition.”

Slowly, Ichigo reaches out and slides a hand over her knee. “We still could.”

She sighs. “That’s not – I’m not asking for that, Ichigo.”

He’s quiet then, just watching her. She can feel Shirayuki stir in the back of her mind, reaching out for his own sword. There is a cold comfort through it all, a shiver down her spine. This house is full of ghosts; what is another one, after all.

“I don’t know,” she says at last, fingers scraping and sliding down the neck of the sake bottle. The taste is sweet on the back of her tongue. “I just – it’s strange. This has been his home, his name, his _life_ – and it’s just _gone_.”

Ichigo swallows hard; she sees the roll of the muscles in his throat. “He knew what was coming,” he says after a moment. 

Her fingers still. “Ichigo – “

“Death wish or whatever – he was always gunning for it, because he was out of his fucking mind,” he mutters. “But you, you and me – I asked him.”

There is a sickly roil in her stomach. She looks down into the murky depths of the bottle, taking a deep breath. “You didn’t.”

“Okay – well, I tried to. And he got very pale and whatever, and told me not to say anything else – but he knew. So he probably was starting to plan. I don’t know, he and my dad have a weird thing, and - “

There’s a horrible sort of gulp from her, echoing in the silence. She feels herself peeling, breaking, piecing out – she has no name but Kuchiki, and now, now she is the only one left – 

Shirayuki hums and coos; the room cools sharply. 

The bed creaks with his movement. Ichigo’s hands brush her arms, her shoulders. His fingers slide over the bare skin of her throat, towards her cheeks. She feels the flush rise on her skin. 

“Rukia,” he says quietly, too quietly. 

“Stop – you just – I don’t _know_ ,” she says, a little raggedly. Her fingers curl hard against the cool clay bottle. “I’m the only one left. They wanted to kill me years ago, and now – now I’m the only Kuchiki. I’m _important_ and it’s all such _shit_ ,” she says steadily. 

His hands cup her face. “It is shit, because they’re shit,” he mutters. 

She looks up, blinking. “That’s not very diplomatic of you.”

“I can afford it now,” he says with a shrug. “This is how many times I’ve saved this damn place?”

There’s a ghost of a smile on her lips. “Lost count, you cocky asshole.”

“Whatever,” he scoffs, hair falling into his brow. His eyes are bright, flecked with gold in the dimming light. “But this – Byakuya cared. He was totally fucking repressed, but he cared. You know that.”

She softens, her mouth curving. “I know,” she says quietly. 

“If you wanted me, he was going to accept it and get over it. So - I don’t know. I don’t know how to help you,” he says. She hears it, the tremble in his voice, the shake at his fingertips on her cheeks. “You’re getting drunk, and – “

“I’m not,” she bristles. “And you’re – just stop.”

He does, surprisingly. He holds his tongue and keeps his hold on her face. His knees nudge at hers. She tilts her head back slightly, eyes wide open. The sake settles in her empty stomach, a sweet burn.

What she wants so badly is for it all not to be her fault. She can’t escape the nagging sensation that just being _there_ , in any sort of battle – that it was her fault. But there is guilt that is carried no matter what; like Hisana, like Kaien, like sometimes how she feels when Ichigo is hurt or near death – she will carry her brother. 

She can’t say that to Ichigo, though; even so, she thinks he will already know. It is how he carries his mother, after all. 

Finally, she meets his eyes. “I don’t know what to do with this house,” she says at last. 

Ichigo’s mouth twists; he knows. 

“You’ll think of something. You always do,” he murmurs. 

Slowly, she sets the bottle aside onto her bedside table without taking her eyes from him. His fingers slip into her hair as his palms curve to her cheeks. 

“This is my room,” she says.

He smiles. “No, it’s not.”

Slowly, she rises onto her knees, to be at a height with him. She leans in and kisses him, her arms sliding around his neck. He murmurs her name, his mouth light and warm against hers. With a push, she has him on his back, sprawled the wrong way across the bed of her strange childhood, straddling him as easy as anything. 

No, it’s not, she thinks, an echo of him. Her hands slide over his chest as she searches for the belt of his robes, their mouths sharp and aching together. Her room is his, that small closet, that tiny bed, the desk tilted awkwardly. This was just a room she slept in for a time, scared and new. 

Still, what is the rest of this house to her, then?

 

*

 

Eventually, they are skin to skin. 

His mouth lingers at the flat of her stomach, the jut of her hipbone. She is aching and sweat-damp, arms stretching back to the headboard. Her nails hit wood and she holds on, digs in as he licks a path down her thigh. She wonders if his legs are hanging off the bed; she was a child here, once. 

“We could do this in every room,” he breathes against her skin, laughing. 

She huffs out something like a laugh, wet and warm and waiting. Her thighs shift open, one sliding over his shoulder. “You’re such a pervert,” she says, voice low in the evening air. 

Ichigo grins up at her from between her thighs, his teeth bared. Her fingers dig in harder into the wood. “You jumped _me_ this time around,” he drawls before he lowers his mouth, and there it is. 

His tongue is at her clit, his hands holding her thighs, and she shuts her eyes, breathing out a low moan. She can feel the vibration of his moan against her slick skin and her hips press forward, insistent. Her hair sticks to her throat, and there are two fingers sliding into her, curving just so. He licks, and it’s just enough to make her forget, make her think of nothing but him. 

When she comes, she is quiet; it’s a low, racking sort of moan. He bites and kisses her thigh, the dip of her waist, the curve of her breast as he moves up her body. She feels him hard at her thigh. His hands come up to hers, fingers linking together. There’s the scrape of his mouth against hers, and she can taste herself, sticky on his lips; she shivers, still breathless and dazed. 

“We could live here, if you wanted,” he murmurs against her mouth. 

She shifts her heels up, her knees pressing against his ribs. There is the hot slide of him against her slick flesh and she tips her head back; they both moan, a low lost sound. 

“Don’t, don’t – “ she says, sharp and breathless. He slides into her, hot and slow and thick, and she shifts her hips against the stretch and fill, the breath caught in her throat. 

His mouth bites at her jaw, the pulse in her throat. She hears the growl at the back of his throat, low and heady. 

“I will do whatever you need me to,” he says hoarsely. “You’re everything – “

“ _Ichigo_ – “ she pants, her fingers twisting against his, her hips matching his movements with stuttered precision. There is the heat rising in her belly, the goosebumps on her skin; he is rising and she feels the crest of it, lost to the sharp press of his energy against hers, the melding of them both. The sheets stick to her bare back. 

His gaze meets her, strong and clear and flecked with the gold she knows so well; his mouth catches hers. “You’re everything to me,” he says, unashamed. 

Her eyes shut as she kisses him, tightens her thighs at his hips. He presses her into the bed of her childhood and comes apart above her, skin to skin and slick to the bone. Everything sticks, lingers; she can smell the sake between them, sweet and tart in her nose. She tightens her fingers in his grip and moans into his mouth, breathing for the both of them. 

Here, there is safety in the frailty. 

 

*

 

Ichigo’s fingers skim down the bare groove of her spine. 

“Can there only be one Kuchiki?” he muses, stretched out next to her in bed. 

They decide to linger in the mansion until morning, or until she decides it’s time to go. Rukia can’t decide where to start; the gardens are beautiful this time of year, the scent of trees and flowers heavy in the night air. She contents herself with lying on her stomach, rolling her eyes at Ichigo.

“There is only one, idiot,” she says tartly. 

“Well, you need an heir,” he says with a grimace. “It all sounds like one of Yuzu’s stupid shojo mangas when you put it that way.”

She laughs, and laughs a little more, choking on the sound. It’s unfamiliar on her tongue. He grins at her. 

“I imagine that one of – “ and she stops herself, before she can finish the thought out loud. _One of their children_ , she thinks, and flushes. They are young, too young for these conversations. 

But Ichigo’s mouth draws serious, and he leans in, touching his mouth to hers lightly. 

“Yeah, I think so too,” he says quietly. 

“This is moving very far ahead,” she mutters. 

His hand flattens at the small of her back. “Eh, I did basically ask you to marry me. It’s not so far, I guess.”

She tips her head back, wrinkling her nose. “Still. Jumping ahead.”

He grins a little, and leans into kiss her once more, eyes open. “We could do it here, though. If you want.”

Truthfully, she doesn’t know what she wants. Grief remains, a dark shadow at her heels. The mansion and the title and the family is hers, and she is the head of a disparate clan of wealthy nobles; but all she wants is the sword at her hip, and the man here in her bed. 

She has always had simple tastes for a Kuchiki.

 

*


End file.
